The Eaglet
by Moonsp1r1t
Summary: As Altair officially begins a new chapter to his life, he struggles to over come his own fears and worries. One-shot.


For a several heartbeats there was nothing but silence. Altaïr's heart raced a thousand miles a second, and he had never been so terrified in his entire life. Cold sweat poured down the back of his neck that had nothing to do with the heat of the room. Nothing even came close to the sheer terror he felt in that moment. His hands clenched around Maria's hands as he stared at the tiny, bloody form in the midwife's arms.

A wail split the air, and he sighed with relief. Maria was crying with tears of joy, wiping her left forearm across her eyes, and it was all Altaïr could do to keep the tears in himself. He couldn't quite believe it. He was so proud of his wife, so happy, and so unbelievably scared.

The midwives cut the umbilical cord and handed him to Maria. She smiled weakly at the tiny form in her arms, and Altaïr took a step back, determined to memorize the scene before him. His son's meaty fists waved through the air, wailing a wail that could pierce the heavens. Altaïr could tell just by hearing him that he was strong.

Altaïr's legs suddenly felt weak and he slumped against the wall. He felt like he was falling. He ran both of his hands through his hair as it finally, _finally_ hit him; he was a father now. He had a son. A tiny life, his own flesh and blood, to take care of. A child that he and Maria had created on their own. Such a difference from what he perceived as normal; creating a life, rather than taking one away.

He felt giddy, his joy coursing through him. He felt like he would drown in his own delirious happiness. His mind chanted a mantra, "_A father. I am a father now. I have a son. A child of my own._" Altaïr stared at the tiny body in Maria's arms, and he felt like he was falling in love all over again. At that moment he knew there was nothing he would not do for his baby son.

"Grandmaster Altaïr?" someone said, jolting him out of his thoughts after several minutes.

He looked up to see one of the midwives holding the baby, who was mostly cleaned off of blood and was swaddled in a small, soft brown blanket. She had dark rings under her eyes and she looked exhausted; Altaïr wasn't surprised, as they were all tired. It had been several hours since Maria's water broke, and it was around sunset when it did. It wasn't very common for a man to be present at a birth, but he had insisted, holding Maria's hand through the entire process, listening to her swear and curse his name for doing this to her. He glanced over on the bed to see that Maria had fallen asleep.

"Would you like to hold him?" she asked.

Altaïr started, a whole new wave of terror washing over him; what if he dropped him? What if he hurt him in some way? What if he held him too tight? What if...

Before Altaïr could say anything, however, the woman reached over and positioned his arms properly before placing the baby in Altaïr's arms so that his large head was rested in the crook of his father's elbow.

One of the first things he noticed was how soft his son was. His skin was smooth and soft. Altaïr looked at his own rough, callused, scared hands, mentally comparing their texture to the texture of the baby's skin. He was looking up at Altaïr with the wide blue-gray eyes that all babies had before nestling into his arms and falling asleep within seconds. Altaïr stared at him, wondering if he had ever been so young and innocent.

Altaïr inhaled deeply, taking in his son's sent, playing with his tiny toes which were curled in on themselves. He gently touched the little dark wisps of hair that were covering his head, and touching the tips of his fingers, all ten of them, just for the sake of touching them. To his delight, the little boy grabbed one of Altaïr's fingers in his sleep, holding him tight.

Tears once again welled in the Grandmaster's eyes as he tried to remain stoic. He rocked him gently in his arms, staring into his son's tiny face, determined to memorize his features.

"Grandmaster, we'll have to ask you to leave. We must tend to your wife, now." said the midwife who had handed his son to him. Her head was bowed slightly in respect as she gestured to the door.

"Ah... Yes." Altaïr said dazedly, all of his attention still on his son, "Of course."

The midwives ushered him out into the hall, shutting the door behind him. From in his arms his son was still holding onto Altaïr's finger. They were alone. It was just Altaïr. Just Altaïr and his son. He looked down into the little face, and felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Hello." Altaïr said hesitantly.

The baby gurgled in response, the hand that was not holding Altaïr's finger was flailing tiredly in the air. Looking down at the tiny face, Altaïr could tell that he would take after his mother, at least in his dark hair that was still a little wet with Maria's blood, and the shape of his nose.

For the life of him, Altaïr couldn't keep the smile off his face, which quickly grew into a large grin; he couldn't remember the last time he had a true, genuine grin on his face that big. He couldn't keep the tears in any longer and allowed them to roll unabashedly down his cheeks, dripping down onto his son's blanket.

"Welcome to the world." Altaïr whispered.

The baby gave a small sigh as his father sniffled. Even though it had only been a few minutes since his birth, it felt so iright/i for Altaïr to hold him; in fact, the baby seemed to fit in the Grandmaster's arms perfectly. Altaïr lifted him slightly and gauged that he couldn't have been more than eight pounds.

"Altaïr, I heard that Maria was in labor, so I-" said Malik's voice from behind him, stopping short when Altaïr turned towards him. The man's eyebrows shot up, and he opened his mouth a little. "Oh."

Altaïr realized that he was still grinning like an idiot, and made an effort to beat back his joy. "This is my son." he said proudly.

"Congratulations," said Malik. "Does he have a name yet?"

The door to the room opened and one of the midwives stepped out. "Alright," she said. "You can come in, now. You too, if you like, Master Malik." she added.

Altaïr and Malik walked through the little doorway. Maria was awake; tired, though she obviously was, she looked like the happiest woman in the world. Altaïr gently handed their son over, and she cradled him, singing a small, quiet song in English under her breath that neither Altaïr nor Malik knew.

"We did it." she breathed when she was done singing, still staring at the baby's face.

"I- I'm proud of you." said Altaïr, mostly addressing Maria and partially addressing his son.

"What are you going to name him?" Malik asked again.

"Darim." Altaïr said. He and Maria had decided beforehand.

"My little Darim." Maria said quietly in a sing-song voice, "How are you, my little one?"

In response, the baby, Darim, laughed.


End file.
